


Fish Fry

by Kittles123



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, nomnom fish fry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 14:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14673357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittles123/pseuds/Kittles123
Summary: Canon divergence during the season 4 scene during which Jaime gives Brienne her sword and armor.





	Fish Fry

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to all the wonderful people of JBO and to the amazing pun-a-thon that happened after someone asked if Jaime was good at sewing. This fic was supposed to be a 'crackle' and then it turned into a crazy in-depth season 4 canon divergence in which Jaime and Brienne find Ser Dontos dead in the rowboat with Sansa's necklace. But then that wasn't working either, so I finally cobbled something together that I think is smut/banter? Anyway, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy :D Also, it's unbeta'd, let me know if I need to fix anything!

**Fish Fry**

 

The evening sun cast the Valyrian steel blade in an ethereal light, the swirls of black in the metal taking on the appearance of liquid, of a rippling stream in the darkness of night.  Her hand gripped the sword with reverence, innocent wonder laid bare upon her face. His remaining hand had brushed against her knuckles when he’d handed the sword to her, and although it had been for the briefest of moments, he could still feel her skin against his.  He showed her the armor next, and it was by no accident that it was dark blue, a color to compliment her eyes. And when she spoke, her voice reverberated into his bones, caressing him, deep and melodic. His throat closed up and he flexed his jaw muscles to keep the unexpected surge of emotion in check.   _ Fucking hells.   _ What was happening to him?  His missing right hand began to throb, sending lightning bolts of pain up his arm all the way into his jaw.  But it was nothing compared to the alternative, to what would have happened if her if he hadn’t spoken up. It was time for him to pawn Podrick off on her, but he couldn’t find the words.  Instead, he said something incredibly foolish.

“You should have a good meal before setting off,” Jaime found himself saying.   _ No, she needs to leave now.  It’s folly to keep her near you. _  But he kept going.  “Perhaps something fresh from the fishmongers.  You’ve been away from the sea for quite a while, my lady of Tarth.”  Oh gods, his words sounded ridiculous in his own ears. Even Brienne couldn’t help but tilt her pale golden head to the side, a bit perplexed by his offer.

“I would join you for the evening meal in the great hall,” she began,” but I don’t know if that is wise.”

Jaime smiled at that.  Some thought Brienne obtuse--he’d been guilty of it himself when they’d first met--but she was no fool.  She knew that it would be ill-advised for her to remain in the Red Keep any longer than necessary.

“I was thinking of a tavern down by the docks.  You’ll need something else to wear though.” She’d need to dress as a man, and a common one at that, unless she wanted every scoundrel in there to set upon her the moment she crossed the threshold.  The sailors knew that the heir to Tarth was in King’s Landing, and the seat of House Tarth was a strategic island for trade with Essos. Some would court her for sport, some for pleasure, and some for financial gain.

“I have nothing suitable,” she replied, which was true.  Even the clothing she’d worn on their way into the city would be too fine for such a place.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.  Meet me in the undercroft of the White Tower at dusk.”

 

Altering servant clothing with only one hand was far more difficult than Jaime had imagined.  He’d been well-versed in needlework during his childhood when he and Cersei would swap identities.  Brienne’s measurements were no problem--he’d had a suit of armor made for her, surely he could alter a set of roughspun clothes, but the actual mechanics of it were a challenge.  Every pull of the thread was a tedious thing, and he poked his stump more than once out of habit, expecting his right hand to be there to pull the needle through. Once he figure out how to use his mouth as a second hand things went faster.  There were a few dots of blood along the seam of the pants though, and he hoped she wouldn’t notice. He couldn’t have her knowing he’d been frantically altering the clothes himself up to the last moment, just as the sun sank red into the treeline of the Kingswood.

He rolled the clothes up into a ball and descended the steps from the top of the White Tower down into the basement.  Ser Boros was on duty tonight guarding Tommen with Ser Meryn as his back up. The barracks on the third floor were empty he noted as he went by.  The other four members of the Kingsguard were out on their own business tonight. But Tommen was safe. Cersei had half the Lannister army guarding the boy, and his father’s watchful eye was trained on Tommen day and night. Jaime wondered briefly how the assassination of Joffrey had slipped past Lord Tywin Lannister.  Nothing got past his father. The implication sent a chill down Jaime’s spine and he cast the thought aside with a shake of his head.

Brienne was early, no surprise there, and she was perusing the rack of morningstars, running her fingers along the handles.  Her hair was combed back in the usual severe fashion and her skin glowed pale white in the torchlight.

“Reliving your victory in the melee?” Jaime asked.

Brienne spun around, having not realized he was there until he spoke.  She looked like she didn’t know what to say, which Jaime had learned was a common enough occurrence.

“I wish I could have been there to see it,” he continued, “to see you knock Loras Tyrell on his arrogant little ass.”  He’d heard she’d fought like a beast, lurching and lunging but had still managed to dance away from Loras’ swings. He was a whiny cunt, but the Knight of Flowers was no slouch in the yard.  It was an accomplishment to beat him in the melee.

“Would that I could have performed when it counted,” Brienne replied, returning her eyes to the spiked heads of the maces.  She would carry the murder of Renly with her forever. Jaime knew the feeling well. There were burdens he could never rid himself of, even if he lived a thousand years.

“I have your clothes, but your going to need to do something about your hair.  And rub some dirt on your face.” She looked too much like a woman, an ugly one to be sure, but still, her skin was too supple and radiant to be that of a salty sailor.

She reached for the hem of her long blue tunic and cleared her throat, prompting him to turn his back to her so she could change.  She would be down to her undershirt and smallclothes, he mused, and he imagined what she would look like as she shimmied into the roughspun pants.  He’d been hard pressed to find a pair long enough for her that wouldn’t expose her slender ankles and give her away.

“Alright,” she said.  She was ruffling up her hair when he turned back to her, and she rubbed her hands on one of the dusty, unused weapons racks and then vigorously ground her palms against her face.

“Don’t scratch yourself,” Jaime chided and immediately felt ridiculous.  The woman had been nearly mauled to death by a bear and had the scars to prove it.

“Are you going to mother me the whole night?” she snipped, and then the banter was flowing, and he felt the tension in his chest unwind.

“Depends what your plans are for the evening.  Are you going to get piss drunk and stumble around the docks?  While I wouldn’t mind watching you fall into the bay, chivalry dictates that I would then have to fish you out.”

She scoffed.  “I’m a perfectly capable swimmer.”

“But are you a perfectly capable drunk?” he asked.  She hesitated. “I thought not. You’ll have a mug or two of ale and turn into a common tavern wench, dripping yourself all over whatever landed knight happens to come in.”

Her mouth fell open, scandalized.  But then she arched a brow and started towards the smooth white steps that led up to the main floor of the White Tower.  “I don’t need a landed knight, Ser Jaime. I’m the heir to Tarth.”

 

_ The Black Bight _ was unusually busy that evening.  Jaime had to shove his way in through the front door and past the crowd of sailors gathered at the bar.  A large merchant ship was docked in the harbor, and the crew must have picked this establishment as their entertainment of choice for the evening.

Jaime had left his golden hand back in his rooms.  He’d shaved that morning, but already stubble had grown back to cover his jaw.  In an attempt to conceal himself, he’d mussed up his hair and dirtied his face, and his right sleeve was hanging loose and empty at his side.  He’d armed Brienne and himself with old, common swords from the White Tower’s armory. She’d left Oathkeeper in his rooms at the Tower. It would have been foolhardy to bring such a blade into this establishment.  He wove his way deeper into the tavern and found a pair of stools clumped together at the far corner of the bar, away from all the action. No one paid any mind to them, not even the tender of the bar. Finally, Jaime had to wave him down.

“What can I do for you?” the old tender asked gruffly as he slapped a sodden rag over his shoulder.  He had a crooked spine and sunspots all over his face, but instead of displeasing to the eye, Jaime found the old man’s appearance interesting, appealing even.  It told a tale of a life in the sun and of backbreaking labor. Perhaps one day he could come to look at his own maimed arm in the same way. And what a story it was.

“Fish fry and ales,” Jaime muttered, attempting to disguise his highborn accent.

“You want the snapper?  It’s our catch of the day.”

Jaime saw Brienne’s face light up next to him and she piped up, trying to deepen her voice.  “Aye, the snapper.”

The tender slammed two mugs of ale down before them and went to give his kitchen woman the order.

“It’s been ages since I’ve had snapper,” Brienne sighed then sipped gingerly on her ale.  “Gods, I can smell it already.”

She was more relaxed than he’d ever seen her.  He nursed his own ale and took note of the way her face softened.  The furrow between her eyebrows that he’d thought was permanent had vanished and her lips looked softer and more plump..

They sat in companionable silence, drinking their ales and watching the other patrons of the bar.  The sailors were drunk already. It was apparent that they’d been here for some time. The regulars were clustered around a group of tables near the foggy windows that faced the docks outside.  Before long, the tender plopped a basket full of fried snapper on the bartop in front of them.

“More ale for you lads?” he asked.  Jaime held back a smile and nodded. It had been ages since anyone had called him a lad, and then after the tender had refilled their mugs and gimped away, Jaime looked at Brienne who was blushing beneath the dirt she’d rubbed on her face.  While most women would take offense, ‘lad’ was probably one of the nicer things she’d been called.

Brienne bit into the first fillet and an indecent moan of pleasure slipped from her parted lips.  The grease made her mouth glisten and he had a sudden, absurd thought of tonguing it off her. He quickly shoved a fillet of his own into his mouth as he tore his eyes away from her in confusion.  Who was he kidding? He wasn’t confused at all about what he was feeling, only about what he was supposed to  _ do _ about it.

“This ale tastes like piss,” Brienne muttered over the rim of her mug.

“That’s the charm of this place,” Jaime answered around a mouthful of fried snapper.  They made quick work of the basket of fish, both of them eating ravenously as if they had something important they needed to get to afterwards. 

“The fish is amazing, I will say that,” Brienne said and shoved a final fillet into her mouth, not even bothering to bite it in half.

The action sent a tingle of heat through him, and the drink made him at ease.  His arms and legs felt warm and light as a feather; his belly was full and his eyes were heavy.  Brienne was smiling more than he’d ever seen before, showing teeth and all. Not that either of them had had much to smile about on the road to King’s Landing.

“I’m full,” Jaime confessed and slouched back on his bar stool, wiping his mouth with the back of his stump.  “I think we should go have us a little spar,” he said and leaned on the bartop, giving her an antagonistic grin.

She barked out a laugh.  “You’ll end up with a broken arm, or perhaps just punched full of little holes like a pincushion.”  She jabbed her finger into his ribs hard to demonstrate. The ale was getting to her head too.

“Some men fight better when they’ve had a drink or two.  Come, if you’re so confident. Or are you afraid to lose to a one-handed drunk?”  He left a few coins on the bartop and shoved his stool away extravagantly. Fortunately, the rest of the tavern was too drunk to notice.  He grabbed her wrist and pulled her against him, the ale giving him the courage. “Come my lady, You’re sure to win, what with me being a cripple now.”  He whispered the words against her ear, teasing her, tempting her with victory.

“I would train with you, if that’s what you want,” she replied, pulling her face back to look him in the eyes.

“Fine, call it training if it makes you feel better.  But don’t deny the fact that you will thoroughly enjoying battering me into submission.”

 

They couldn’t very well spar in the tavern or in the streets, so Jaime paid for one of the larger rooms on the second floor.  They were the only people on the second floor. The sailors would all be staying in their bunks on board their ship, so while the tavern was packed, the inn upstairs was empty.

In hindsight they really shouldn’t have been sparring at all because it wasn’t before long that Jaime’s left hand didn’t move quite the way he’d intended and he drew blood.  Brienne jerked her hand back as a dark red line bloomed along her knuckles. She simply shook her hand off to the side, splattering blood on the floor in a wide arc, and positioned herself for the next play  But Jaime watched transfixed as the old wooden boards soaked up the crimson liquid greedily and watching Brienne’s lifeblood sink into them suddenly made him swoon. He stumbled down to a knee as the room spun around him.

“Jaime,” Brienne said sternly, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder.  “Stand up.”

He took a breath, trying to clear his head.  He’d seen men gutted and their heads smashed in, but he couldn’t handle a little blood?  She knelt down in front of him and put her hand into his hair at the base of his skull and pulled, forcing his eyes up to meet hers.  Her pupils were wide and her chest rose and fell quickly, her blood still singing from the ale and the swordplay. “We’re not done yet,” she said, and then he saw her eyes flick down to look at his lips, and he licked them reflexively.

“What are we even doing?” he asked, his voice cracking deep in his throat.

“I thought we were sparring,” she replied.  “Unless you think a little scratch is enough to call off the match.”

But it was more than a scratch, and he forced his head from her grip and grabbed her wrist, bringing her bloodied hand up so he could look closely at it.  The cut was deep, but it didn’t appear that he’d damaged any tendons, thank the gods.

“Can you bend your fingers?” he asked, still staring down at her hand.

Her fingers grasped once then twice around his own.  He stood up and brought her to sit on the bed. She huffed in irritation as he wet a cloth in the pitcher and then used it to clean up her hand.  He tore a strip of fabric off the bottom of his own shirt and wrapped it around her knuckles, tucking the end in so it would stay tight. With her blood cleaned up and hidden behind the bandage, he was beginning to feel better.  He realized he never wanted to see her bleed again, especially because of him.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, “but you didn’t have to do that.”

“It was quite gallant of me, wasn’t it?” he asked with a smile and patted her knee.  Then he couldn’t help himself and gave it a squeeze, right above her kneecap which produced a screeching laugh out of her--she was apparently  _ very  _ ticklish there-- and she pried his hand off her.

“Gods, you are such a pest.  I don’t know how I managed to refrain from killing you myself on our way here.”  Her eyes were laden with intent, like she wanted to smother him with a pillow, or perhaps pin him down and rake her hands through his hair.  He was growing hard just at the thought. Even if it was to kill him, the thought of her hands on him was appealing. So this could only be a win-win as far as he was concerned.

“We can’t possibly go back to the keep at this hour,” he murmured and leaned in close to her, daring to brush his lips against her ear, “it will send tongues wagging.”

She shuddered and closed her eyes.  He took that as a good sign, so he nuzzled in against her neck, but then she spoke.

“Please, don’t.”

A raw and blistering pain he’d never felt before blossomed in his chest.  He jerked back, scared and crushed and so very sorry. But then she continued.

“Please don’t tease me about that.  Not you.”

“Brienne, I have no idea how to do what I’m attempting to do here, but I’m not trying to tease you.”  He nearly laughed as he said it, the relief he was feeling that she wasn’t rejecting him, just wary, making him giddy.

She looked over at him with disbelief in her eyes, but there was a little bit of hope in them too, and she looked at his mouth and pressed her own lips together.

“I’d like to continue in my pathetic attempts at seducing you, if you’ll allow it.”  He gave her his most charming smirk, and she narrowed her eyes.

“Fine, go ahead.”

“You don’t seem very confident that I can do it,” he replied.  Now this was getting genuinely awkward. Were they actually arguing about this?   _ Alright, that’s it. _  He put his hand around the back of her neck and pressed his lips to hers.  She was rigid in his arms for a few tense moments, and then she melted into him, putting her hands into his hair and kissing him back urgently, almost aggressively, and he found himself opening his mouth as he yielded to her inexperienced yet amazing tongue.

Concern or worry or lucid thought of any kind slipped away.  He pushed her back onto the bed and pressed the length of his body against her, and that finally prompted a gasp from her and their mouths drew apart to catch their breaths.  Seven hells, he wanted to fuck her, to hear her moan as his mouth found her nipples, to hear her scream his name as she came apart around him. But she was a maid, and a highborn lady at that, and-

“Jaime,” she murmured against his neck as her hips bucked up against his.  Her lips sought his again and he obliged then worked his way down her neck and collarbone.  When he reached the laces of her shirt, the one he’d sewn for her, he didn’t even have time to wonder if she would want him to go further.  She was gripping his hair and the let out a low moan. “Please, Jaime.”

_ Oh fuck yes, this is happening.   _ He pulled open her shirt, ripping at it desperately using his teeth and hand, and then pushed it back off her shoulders and bared her breasts.  He took only a moment to take in the sight before dropping his mouth to a taut, pink nipple and moving his tongue around the tip in little circles.

She was coming undone now, moaning and begging for more and it was so wanton that before long he was rutting against her with no regard for the fact that they both still had their pants on.  He took her nipple into his mouth and sucked ardently, rolling the other one between his fingertips.

“Jaime, please.”  She was flushed and distressed as she writhed beneath him, searching for words.  “Please I need you to do  _ something. _ ”  She was either refusing to say the words ‘fuck me’ or she was so far gone that she didn’t even know what she needed, so he tugged at the waist of her pants, and she immediately wriggled her hips to get them off.  He pushed his own pants down enough to free his aching, engorged cock and when she felt it nestled between her thighs, she let out a guttural moan and spread her legs wide. He barely had to guide himself in; she was ready to take him and the rolling of her hips did most of the work for him, so he let her receive him at her own pace.  She grimaced once or twice, and once he was fully sheathed in her she sighed with relief. Then they began to move, and it didn’t take long for either of them to finish--he pushed her over the edge first with the deep, penetrating strokes she was craving and a little pressure from his thumb. He followed her shortly after, gripping her ass with his left hand as he pounded into her relentlessly until he spilled inside her.

He collapsed beside her and only then did he notice that the insides of her thighs were slick with blood.   It was more blood than he would have expected from a lady who had spent the majority of her life thundering around on a horse like a proper knight.  He skimmed his palm down her belly, and he could still feel her heart beating rapidly.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she murmured, laying flat on her back, bare naked with her eyes closed.  She hadn’t even pulled the sheet up over herself, so sated she couldn’t be bothered to care.  “Quite the opposite actually.”

He picked up her hand that was laying next to him and kissed it and then they both fell asleep.

 

Jaime woke up the next morning just as the sun was rising over the Blackwater.  Brienne was still asleep in his arms with her face nuzzled into his neck.

“Brienne, it’s morning,” he said to rouse her.  She grumbled and shifted in his arms. “We should get back before the castle is awake.”  He traced his fingers down her spine, unsure if she still wanted him to touch her. “I’d like to see you off if that’s alright.”  And he still needed to give Pod to her. The lad wouldn’t survive long if he remained in the capitol. Jaime would keep that as a last minute surprise; he didn’t want her to have enough time to protest.

“I’ll go back first to get my things in order.  I need to leave as soon as possible.”

“I wish you weren’t leaving,” Jaime said, unable to hold it in anymore.  He wanted her here, by his side. He felt whole when she was near, more so than he’d ever felt before.  And to think this whole time he’d thought Cersei was his other half.

“I wish you were coming with me,” she whispered and her voice caught in her throat.  Her face was still nuzzled into him and he could tell she was on the verge of tears.

“If you were to ask anything of me right now, I don’t think I would be able to deny you.”  But she wouldn’t ask him. His place was here, at least for now, and she would never ask him to dishonor himself and abandon his family, especially his children.  And he would never ask her to stay--she needed to fulfill their oath to Catelyn Stark.

“There is one thing,” she said and tucked her head even further into him, and he could have sworn he could  _ feel _ her blushing against him.

“And what is that?” Jaime asked, letting his hand drift down over her backside, his cock stirring.

“Could we perhaps do what we did last night one more time?”

Jaime pulled back and looked down at her.  He gave her a devilish grin and said, "whatever my lady desires,” then pulled her lips to his.


End file.
